


Doctor Whiskey

by softsweaterskeletonboi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Doctor Watson, Drug Use, Eventual Johnlock, FTM Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Punklock, Sherlock is a bartender, Teenlock, Trans Sherlock, Translock, Trichotillomania, jim is even more of a bad guy than usual in this, pregnant sherlock holmes, sherrinford holmes as a baby, this turned into parentlock really quick, tw for abusive relationship, tw for drugs, tw for implied hiv, tw for rape/implied rape, whoops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-05-23 14:38:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14936207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softsweaterskeletonboi/pseuds/softsweaterskeletonboi
Summary: John Watson is getting used to long nights at Bart's Hospital. What he wasn't expecting was for the bartender Sherlock Holmes to take up residence in his mind and his life.(I'm absolute shite at writing descriptions, forgive me.)





	1. In A Bar Across the Street

John didn’t visit the bar across the street from St. Bart’s Hospital often, but after a long shift like tonight’s, he needed a very stiff drink. And so, he found himself taking a seat on a barstool, coming face to face with a bartender he hadn’t seen before.  


The man was young, looked too young in fact, with cheekbones that could cut someone and an alabaster face. The sleeves of his button-down were rolled up, revealing armfuls of tattoos, which slithered their way beneath the shirt and reappeared at his collarbones and neck. His head was adorned with dark, unruly curls, his forehead beading with light sweat. He turned to John, looking harried, and raked a hand through his hair.  


“What can I get for you?” He asked, surprising John with his baritone voice.  


“Uh, whiskey.” John replied. “Neat.”  


The man turned around, pulling the appropriate bottle off the shelf and preparing the drink swiftly. He set the glass in front of John seconds later.  


“Are you sure you’re old enough to be a bartender?”  


The other’s eyes narrowed. “What are you, a cop?”  


“No,” John shook his head, taking a sip of his drink. “Just wondering.”  


“I’m twenty-two.” The man answered, turning away to take care of another customer. He returned seconds later, his hands resting on the bar as he looked John up and down.  


“Doctor, right?”  


John blinked. “Yeah.”  


The man nodded, his eyes devouring John, but he said nothing more as he refilled John’s drink. “This one’s on the house.”  


“Oh. Thanks.” John’s hand ghosted over the glass. “Are you sure you’re twenty-two?”  


The man sighed, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket, flipping it open and showing it to John. It read ‘Holmes, Sherlock’, and, true to Sherlock’s word, stated his birth year as 1996.  


“Alright, then.” John nodded. “That’s an interesting name, by the way.”  


“I’m aware,” Sherlock purred, and John shivered despite himself. “Picked it myself.”  


“Sherlock,” the bar owner and John’s long-time friend, Stamford, called from the other end of the bar. “Take your half hour and get out of my hair.”  


“I wish for us to meet again, Doctor.” Sherlock smiled mysteriously, then disappeared through the back door. John watched him go, finished the rest of his drink, threw a few notes onto the bar, then made his way home.

John returned to the bar the next night, if anything to see Sherlock again. He wasn’t met with disappointment - Sherlock was there, cleaning glasses to pass the time as the bar was a lot less busy. John took a seat, immediately noticing with unease the bruises on Sherlock’s face, the black and blue contrasting unattractively with the bartender’s pale skin. He nodded to John.  


“Same as last night?”  


“What happened to your face?”  


“Same as last night?” Sherlock asked again, and poured another neat whiskey for him without waiting for a response. “On the house.”  


“Thanks,” John didn’t touch the glass. “What happened to you?”  


“Fell up the stairs,” Sherlock said dryly, going back to cleaning glasses. “I’m quite clumsy.”  


“Don’t look clumsy.”  


“It comes with the height,” Sherlock replied, not looking John in the eye.  


“Right,” John said stiffly, staring Sherlock down as he took a sip of his drink.  


“Oi, John.” Mike sauntered towards them. “Are you harassing my best bartender?”  


“He’s fine,” Sherlock murmured, his lips quirking upwards just slightly. “Keeping me entertained, seeing as how boring this night is.”  


“Boring, huh?” Mike replied, but he was smiling. “Today was your day off, you know. You’re the one who offered to come in.”  


“Wanted to get another chance to see the doctor,” Sherlock replied, smirking as he looked John up and down. “And I’d say he came for another chance to see me.”  


John blushed, heat creeping up his cheeks and the back of his neck. “Maybe. Lucky for you, too, so you can get a doctor to look at that for you.”  


“Leave it be, Doctor.” Sherlock replied, voice low, his eyes back on the floor as he threw the glass-cleaning rag onto his shoulder. John noted that the sleeves off his button up were left down, this time, the sleeves clasped just at his bony wrists.  


“Are you sure?”  


“As sure as I am about your sister being an alcoholic.” Sherlock remarked, setting the glass he was holding back on its shelf. John gaped at him.  


“Don’t take offense,” Mike smirked. “He’s like that with everybody.”  


“Because everybody is so boringly obvious,” Sherlock stated, leaning with his back against the bar and his arms crossed. He turned his head to look at John. “Besides you. No, something about you is different.”  


John shifted under the attention, heat rising in his cheeks again. “Thanks, I think?”  


“Don’t worry about it,” Sherlock murmured, checking his watch and glancing at Mike. “See you tomorrow, Stamford.” And without another word, he sauntered out of the bar, his gait slightly uneven.  


“Sherlock's usually not that nice.” Mike said, smiling to himself as he refilled John’s drink. "You're in deep shit, Watson."  


“Guess so,” John replied, knocking it back with a sigh.


	2. Whiskey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not good at medical stuff, so sorry if it's a bit inaccurate. I tried.

“Got a patient for you,” Sarah said, clipboard in hand as she approached John in the A&E. “Bed three. Heroin overdose, looks like. Pretty banged up, too.”  
“Got it,” John said, snapping on non-latex gloves as he made his way over to said bed.  
“Whiskey!” Said a familiar baritone voice. John blinked as he got closer. “Whiskey.”  


It was the one and only bartender, Sherlock Holmes. John could tell from his wide, glassy eyes and slurred speech that Sherlock was indeed high.  


“It’s Watson,” John murmured, unsurprised to see more new bruises on Sherlock’s pretty face. Sherlock was heaving a little as he eyed John up and down, his entire body shaking.  
“What’s going on?” John asked the nurse, lifting Sherlock’s gown and finding more bruises scattered across the torso. Sherlock’s arms were scattered with track marks as well.  
“Uh, young male by the name of Sherlock Holmes, aged around sixteen or seventeen, brought in for heroin overdose when someone found him passed out in an alleyway.”  


“Wait,” John murmured, pressing around on Sherlock’s abdomen. Sherlock hissed in pain. “Sixteen? He’s not sixteen.”  
But upon closer inspection, John could see it. Sherlock was young, even though he was tall for his age. John looked around for the bag of Sherlock’s belongings, fishing out his wallet and flipping it open. Inside he found multiple IDs, each with a different birth year and photo. All of them good fakes.  


“Sorry,” Sherlock wheezed, seeing the disappointment on John’s face. He coughed.  
“It’s fine,” John muttered, putting the wallet back where he found it. “Has he had any Narcan?”  
The nurse nodded. John nodded back, continuing his examination of Sherlock’s torso.  
“Sit up for me,” he said, pulling his stethoscope from around his neck. Sherlock did as he was told and John saw yet even more bruises, all in varying stages of healing, on Sherlock’s back.  


“Deep breath in,” Sherlock obeyed, sucking in the biggest breath he could as John listened.  
“Good, and again.”  
Sherlock did it once more, this one sounding a lot more labored.  
“Let’s go ahead and admit him, I want to get a CT scan and some x-rays of his chest and abdomen to make sure there’s not any internal bleeding.”  
The nurse nodded, scurrying away to begin the process of admission. John took another moment at Sherlock’s bedside.  
“Let me guess, you fell up the stairs again?”  
“Down this time,” Sherlock deadpanned, his high slowly wearing off. A small grin tugged at the corners of John’s mouth despite the situation.  
“You don’t have to lie, Sherlock. You’ve done enough lying. Pretty good fakes, by the way.”  
“I’m skilled in more ways than one,” Sherlock replied, smirking a little. John nodded, running his eyes down the clipboard.  
“I’ve got some other patients to check on, but I’ll come see you once you’re settled in your room, okay?”  
“Thanks, Whiskey.” Sherlock mumbled, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. John shook his head, getting up from the stool and giving Sherlock one last look-over before he moved on to his next patient.

“Doctor Watson!” A nurse called from down the corridor. “One of your patients is getting out of control.”  
The urgency in her voice made John sprint towards her, down the hallway until he got to outside one of the rooms. From behind the closed door he could hear yelling, and the sound of things hitting the wall as though they had been thrown. He opened the door, laying eyes on the chaos before him.  
Sherlock was cowered in a corner, throwing things violently from the cart beside him at the several nurses in the room, all of whom were trying to calm him down. His eyes were wide and panicky, his mouth shouting nonsense at the terrified orderlies before him.  


“Enough!” John said, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the ruckus Sherlock was making. The room came to a standstill.  
“Whiskey?” Sherlock said weakly, leaning against the wall behind him on shaky knees.  
“Right, out, all of you.” John gestured to the nurses, who made no protest as they practically ran past him out of the room. John closed the door behind them, lowering the blinds on the window before he approached Sherlock as if he were a wounded animal.  


“Set the gauze roll down, Sherlock.” He said gently, watching as Sherlock did as he was told. He reached out a hand, his heart twisting uncomfortably when Sherlock flinched. “Come on, we’re just going to get you back into bed.”  


“They were trying to sedate me,” Sherlock hissed, and although he tried to sound angry, John could hear the threat of a sob in his voice as he took Sherlock by the wrist and guided him to the bed. Sherlock allowed himself to be helped back into it, pulling his knees to his chest. “I can’t…”  
“It’s okay, Sherlock,” John murmured absentmindedly, picking up the manilla envelope containing Sherlock’s scans and opening them. He held them up to the light.  
“Right, everything abdominal looks good, no internal bleeding, but several of your ribs are fractured.” He pulled out the CT scan, holding it up to the light as well. “And it looks like there was a break in your arm that didn’t heal right. We’ll get that taken care of in the morning.”  


“The morning?”  
“I’m keeping you here overnight,” John nodded. “To make sure you don’t get into any more trouble, if anything.”  
Sherlock was looking at the far wall, his mop of curls falling in his eyes. He didn’t say anything.  
“Right,” John said, nodding to himself. “That’s that, then. And try not to terrify anymore of my nurses, alright?”  
Sherlock still didn’t say anything. After a moment of waiting, John sighed.  


“Try and get some rest, Sherlock. I’ll be back for rounds.” He backed out of the room slowly, his eyes on Sherlock’s still figure the entire time. He exited the room, rubbing his forehead with one hand as he did so. Sherlock Holmes was becoming one hell of a headache.


	3. Do You Make House Calls?

John did a double take as he passed by room 221, sure that his eyes were tricking him as he stared through the window into the empty room. He turned to the nurses’ desk.  
“What happened to my patient in room 221?”  


“Left,” the nurse said without looking up.  


“No,” John shook his head. “That can’t be right, he can’t be checked out without a guardian.”  


“He didn’t check out,” the nurse corrected, eyes trained on the computer in front of her. “He just left. Climbed out the window, I suspect, but nobody knows what really happened. After six am he was just...gone.”  


“Oh,” John nodded slowly. “And nobody saw him go?”  


“Nope,” the nurse shook her head. “He didn’t take anything with him, though, no morphine or anything as far as we can tell. Just his bag of belongings.”  


John turned his head, staring through the room’s window at the bed that previously held Sherlock. After a moment, he shook his head and began to walk away. He had too much other stuff to worry about.

“Whiskey, neat.” John said automatically, not bothering to look at the bartender in question as he barked his order, taking a seat on a faded burgundy barstool. It was only when he looked up that he noticed the familiar mop of curls, nimble fingers pouring out a glass of whiskey with practiced ease.  


It had been a day and a half since Sherlock had disappeared from the hospital. John knew it and Sherlock knew it, and that’s why Sherlock refused to meet John’s gaze. His face, John was glad to see, was healing.  


“Are we going to talk about it?” John asked, tracing the rim of his glass with his index finger.  


“Talk about what?” Sherlock replied, his voice just a tad rough.  


“About you breaking out of the hospital like some criminal.”  


“Not if we don’t have to.”  


“Then let’s talk about how you’re severely underage for this job.”  


Sherlock hissed, looking around them to see if anybody had heard. He caught eyes with Mike at the other end of the bar.  


“Mike,” he called, still not looking at John. “Can I go out for a smoke break?”  
Mike took a moment to assess the business of the bar, then nodded. Sherlock set his rag down and stepped out the back door, gesturing subtly for John to follow. John downed the rest of his glass and did so.  


“So,” John said as Sherlock lit a Marlboro cigarette from a crumpled pack in his pocket. “You broke out of the hospital. Why?”  


Sherlock exhaled smoke slowly, leaning against the brick wall of the back of the bar. After several long moments, he looked at the ground and spoke.  
“I couldn’t be caught there.”  


“Caught there?” It took a couple of seconds for John’s mind to put the pieces together. “You mean the person who put you there would look there for you first.”  


“Among others.” Sherlock replied. “It was important for me to get out before my presence there could be established.”  


“So it wasn’t just a fall involving stairs, hm?”  


“I believe you aren’t as idiotic as most, Whiskey. You knew it wasn’t.”  


Sherlock took a long draw off his cigarette.  


“There’s people who can help you, you know.”  


“Don’t start.”  


“Fine,” John sighed. “Let’s talk about you being sixteen and a bartender.”  


“I need the money,” Sherlock said, eyes focused on his cigarette. “And bartending was the better option.”  


“Out of?”  


“Stripping,” Sherlock shrugged. “Or worse.”  


John shuddered. “This isn’t a good life for you, Sherlock.”  


“Don’t, Whiskey.” Sherlock finished his cigarette and crushed it with the heel of his boot, stepping past John and opening the back door to the bar. “Just don’t.”

John didn’t see Sherlock again for several days. He had almost forgotten about the enigmatic teenager, until he got a text on his mobile from an unknown number near the end of his shift.  
_Do you do house calls, Doctor? SH_  
John stared at his phone for several long moments. _Sherlock?_  
_You get off of your shift at Bart’s soon, yeah? SH_  
_Yeah._  
_Meet me at 221B Baker St., if convenient. SH_  
A minute or so passed.  
_Bring sutures if you can._

Baker Street wasn’t in the best part of town. John packed a bag full of medical supplies and took a cab there anyway, getting out just outside of 221 and paying the cabbie his fare. He took a moment to inspect the door. Somebody had broken in, leaving the door unlatched. With a sigh, John let himself in.  
“Sherlock?” He called as quietly as possible as he ascended the stairs.  


“Whiskey,” came the weak reply from the moth-eaten couch in the sitting room. Sherlock’s lanky, skinny figure was splayed out on it, his t-shirt soaked in crimson blood, a large gash on his forehead. “Did you bring the sutures?”  


“Yes,” John swore softly as he crouched beside the young teen. “What in the hell happened, Sherlock? We need to get you to Bart’s.”  


“No,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. “We can take care of it here.” He lifted his t-shirt for John to see the large laceration on his abdomen, leaking blood. “I’ve assessed it, and it hasn’t done any organ damage. Just needs to be stitched up.”  


“What happened?” John asked again, rummaging in his bag for antiseptic.  


“It got bad,” Sherlock murmured. “Worse than it's ever been.”  


“I don’t have any anaesthetic,” John warned him, dabbing antiseptic on the gash.  


“That’s fine,” Sherlock replied through gritted teeth. “Just get it over with.”  


John went to work silently. Sherlock stayed remarkably still, breathing evenly through his nose as John threaded the needle through the gash again and again. After a short while, John tied off the thread, snipping it with scissors from his bag before turning his attention to the cut on Sherlock’s forehead.  


“This one doesn’t look like it needs stitches,” he noted. “I’ll just clean it up.”  


“Thank you,” Sherlock said softly. “For meeting me here. For everything.”  


“What is this place, anyway?” John asked,  


“Abandoned flat,” Sherlock murmured, hissing at the sting of the antiseptic. “I came here a few days ago for a shower, but the water’s busted.”  


John paused. “You’re homeless?”  


“Does that surprise you, Doctor?”  


“Erm, yeah, actually.” John murmured. “I mean, I would assume the money for your job - “  


“Drugs,” Sherlock replied before John could finish his sentence. “Or does that surprise you as well?”  


“No, not at all,” John replied, a sour taste in his mouth. “If you want a shower, you can come by my place. Stay the night, too, looks like you could use it.”  


Sherlock stared at him in bewilderment as if John had lost his mind. “Your place?”  


“My place, yes. It has a functioning shower and a couch.” John promised with a wry smile.  


“Do you take in strays often or is it just me?”  


“Only ones who make a damn good drink,” John replied, standing. “Can you walk?”  


“I can walk fine,” Sherlock said, a hint of a snap in his voice as he stood. He wavered a bit, stumbling when he tried to take a step forward and throwing an arm out to balance himself. John chuckled.  


“Come on, make it down the stairs and we can get a cab.” He told him, letting Sherlock lean on him as they made their way down the stairs. “Jesus, you are unfairly tall.”  


“Sorry,” Sherlock mumbled as they stepped out of the flat. He raised his hand, summoning a taxi from seemingly nowhere despite his ratty, punk appearance. John shook his head as they climbed in.  


“So,” John said, as the taxi pulled away from the kerb. “You knew my sister was an alcoholic.”  


It was a question within a statement. Sherlock sighed, the bags under his eyes suddenly prominent.  


“It’s the way you drink. You grip the glass, your fingers tremble ever so slightly, and your face screws up tight as if you’re having to think about it. You’re mentally keeping track, making sure you don’t go overboard. The way you keep your shoulders says alcoholism is genetic in your family, but the same shoulders say that your alcoholic father is dead. Someone close, but not someone you resent. Your sister, I presumed, although it being sibling was just a stab in the dark.”  


“You were right,” John said quietly, looking out of the taxi window. Sherlock leaned his head back against the backseat, closing his eyes.  


“Does Mike know?” John asked suddenly. Sherlock sat up, opening his eyes reluctantly.  


“Know what?”  


“That you use.” John turned to look at him. “That you’re being abused by your…”  


“Boyfriend,” Sherlock supplied, nodding. “No, he doesn’t. Knows that I use, though. It’s a bit of a complicated deal.”  


“Boyfriend,” John’s eyebrows shot up so high they were hidden by his blonde fringe.  
“So you’re - “  


“Gay, yeah.” Sherlock nodded, his grey eyes suddenly lightning-like. “Is that a problem, Whiskey?”  


“Not at all,” John shook his head quickly.  


“Good,” Sherlock murmured, turning his head away from John and watching London pass by in the window.  


“Good,” John echoed, turning his head to do the same. The rest of the ride to his flat was silent.

“I have something you can wear, but it might not fit right,” John said, digging through his wardrobe and returning with one of his oatmeal, cable-knit jumpers and some pyjama pants.  
“I’ll wash those for you, too.” He handed the bundle to Sherlock, gesturing towards the hallway. “It’s the door on the right.”  


“Thanks,” Sherlock muttered, disappearing into the bathroom. John gave him ample time to get the water running and get undressed before ducking in with a laundry basket and gathering Sherlock’s worn and torn clothes. The measly outfit consisted of a holy t-shirt of some metal band, an undershirt, and black skinny jeans with the knees torn up. It also included an expensive looking, charcoal grey Belstaff coat, the only thing Sherlock seemed to bother to take care of. With wonderment, John laid it across the back of the couch and then put the rest of the clothes in the wash.  


Sherlock emerged sometime later. The jumper fit rather well, draping Sherlock’s dreadfully skinny frame, but the pyjamas were too short, stopping several inches above Sherlock’s ankles.  


“Thanks again,” Sherlock said, eyes falling on the bed John had made the best he could out of the sofa.  


“I was gonna order take-out, if you like.” John said from where he was making tea in the kitchen. “Or something else, if take-out doesn’t settle with you.”  


“Take-out’s fine,” Sherlock said softly, and John could see just a hint of crimson in the teen’s cheeks.  


“No problem,” he said casually as he handed Sherlock a cup of tea. They went into the sitting room together, sitting next to each other on the couch. John turned on the telly, pulling his mobile from his pocket as he did so to order their dinner.  


“I’ve got it,” Sherlock said, half an hour later when the doorbell rang. He got up, pulling money from his wallet as he did so and handing it to the delivery man before returning to the sofa with the food.  


“So,” John said as he dished out the food. “You’re a sixteen years old, homeless drug addict working as a bartender.”  


“Yes.”  


“And in an abusive relationship.”  


Sherlock rolled his eyes with a heavy sigh. “No.”  


“Your face says otherwise, mate, nevermind the rest of your body.”  


“Jim only…” Sherlock trailed off, his voice threatening to crack. He looked away. “Only when he’s drunk.”  


“You’re lying,” John stated, having no trouble calling Sherlock on his bullshit. “Maybe in the beginning, but it’s more often, now. Isn’t it?”  


“Please don’t make me talk about it,” Sherlock said, his voice so soft it made John’s heart ache. He ate in silence for a few moments, Sherlock picking absently at his food as if lost in thought.  


“Eat,” John brandished his chopsticks at him. “It looks like you haven’t eaten in days.”  


“It’s just transport, Whiskey.” Sherlock murmured, but took a bite nonetheless.  


“Why do you call me that?”  


Sherlock arched an inquisitive eyebrow at him, chewing.  


“Whiskey. Why do you call me whiskey?”  


“It’s your go-to drink.” Sherlock shrugged. “In between.”  


“In between?”  


“‘John’ is too personal and ‘Doctor Watson’ seems to formal. ‘Whiskey’ gives the impression of familiarity while still keeping distance.”  


John blinked at the sophisticated-sounding answer. “I call you by your first name. Why can’t you call me by mine?”  


“Because,” Sherlock said, not looking up from his carton. “Sherlock’s not my legal name.”

John didn’t bother to ask what Sherlock’s legal name was, knowing he wouldn’t get the proper answer from him anyway. Instead, he made sure Sherlock was situated, put his guest’s clothes in the dryer, then said goodnight and took himself to bed.

He wasn’t surprised when Sherlock was gone the next day, clothes gone from the dryer, the pyjama bottoms folded and laid across the back of the couch. His jumper, however, was nowhere to be seen. There was a single-worded sticky note left on the tea kettle: _Thanks._


	4. John Meets Moriarty

The jumper returned four days later in the form of Sherlock Holmes, standing at the entrance of A&E in handcuffs.

“Was going to take him straight to the yard,” the grey-haired but kind-looking holding Sherlock still by the shoulder explained. “But he was having symptoms of a concussion, so I brought him here.”

“Right,” John said, looking Sherlock up and down. John could tell that he had had another beating since the last time they saw each other.

“Is this really necessary, Lestrade?” Sherlock muttered, not looking at John.

“You in handcuffs, or us being here?” Lestrade replied snarkily. “Because you could have avoided this if you hadn’t tripped down the stairs while running from one of my detectives.”

“I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

“Hmm, let’s see,” Lestrade pretended to think. “Public indecency, for one. Possession of drugs, for another. Public intoxication. Resisting arrest. Being a general shithead. Should I go on?”

“Public indecency?” John questioned, sitting Sherlock on one of the gurneys and reaching for his penlight.

“She caught him doing…” Lestrade paused, looking for the right words. “Unsavory acts with another man in an alleyway in exchange for drugs.”

Sherlock kept his eyes on the floor, and John wasn’t sure, but he could’ve sworn Sherlock’s eyes were full of shame.

“You were sucking dick?” John exclaimed to him quietly. “In my jumper?”

“Shut up,” Sherlock muttered, huffing in frustration as John grabbed his chin and made him look upward, flashing the penlight in his eyes.

 

“Right. Who’s the prime minister?”

“Ask me another question,” Sherlock muttered. “I wouldn’t know that whether I was concussed or not. Which I’m not, by the way.”

“What’s your name?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Where are you?”

“St. Bart’s hospital.”

“Right,” John said again, clicking off his penlight. “You don’t have a concussion.”

“Thanks,” Lestrade nodded, taking Sherlock by the back of the neck and handing him off to a detective standing nearby. She took Sherlock by the arm, leading him out of the hospital and to a cruiser outside.

“Wait,” John said as Lestrade turned to leave. “What’s going to happen to him?”

“I’m just gonna stick him in a cell overnight,” Lestrade assured him. “Usually deters him for a few days. I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade, by the way. You’re a friend of Sherlock’s?”

“Doctor John Watson,” John nodded, shaking Lestrade’s outstretched hands. “And, erm, sort of.”

“Good,” Lestrade nodded slowly. “You seem like an upright guy. Sherlock needs that in his life.”

With a tip of his head, he excused himself, disappearing out of the A&E doors. John watched them go.

\- A few days later -

John was heading back to his car after a long shift when he heard Sherlock’s voice, raised and angry sounding.  
He paused, following the sound until he came upon Sherlock and a taller, older man, dressed in an expensive suit and carrying an equally expensive looking umbrella, arguing outside of the bar. He stopped just short of them to listen, neither one of them paying him any attention.

“You were in the hospital recently,” the man was saying. “Why?”

“Fuck off, Mycroft.” Sherlock spat, crossing his arms and flicking the ashes off his cigarette with rage.

“Now, Janette - “

“Don’t.” Sherlock’s voice was dangerously low this time, his eyes once again like lightning, his face seething. “Do not ever call me that name.”

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft bowed his head, then reached a hand out to touch the bruises on Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock yanked away, scowling.

“Is everything okay, here?” John asked, stepping forward.

“Not now, John.” Sherlock snapped.

“Ah yes, John Watson.” Mycroft turned to him, smiling at John in a way that made his stomach turn to ice. “So nice to finally meet you.”

“Oh please,” Sherlock snarled with disgust. “Don’t tell me you’ve been stalking him too.”

“I’m sorry,” John intervened, eyes flickering from one to the other. “Who the fuck are you?”

Mycroft’s smile disappeared in an instant. “Mycroft Holmes, thank you very much.”

“My brother,” Sherlock clarified. “And the British fucking government.”

“Oh,” John breathed out a sigh of relief. He was sure for a moment that this man was Jim. “Right, what are you two having a row about?”

“You’re the doctor who treated my s-” Mycroft caught himself, clearing his throat. “My brother the past two times he’s been in the hospital, correct?”

John nodded.

“Would you mind telling me what you treated him for the first time he was in your care?”

John shook his head. “Sorry, can’t. Doctor-patient confidentiality.”

Mycroft looked affronted. “Might I have to threaten you for such information, John?”

“You can try, yeah.” John nodded. “But you won’t get very far. I took an oath and I plan to uphold it. Excuse me,” He moved past Mycroft, putting a gentle hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“You okay?”

Sherlock nodded, lighting a cigarette from a fresh pack in the pocket of his skinny jeans.

“Look a little rough,” John murmured, low enough for only Sherlock to hear.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock muttered back, lips quirking upward in a small smirk as Mycroft approached them.

“Well, Sherlock, I’m aware your break ends soon, but make no mistake in thinking this conversation is over.”

“Bugger off, Mycroft.” Sherlock replied, taking a long draw off his cigarette before spitting on the ground at Mycroft’s feet. Mycroft stiffened, the grip on his umbrella tightening, and John thought for a moment he might reach out and strike the younger boy.

“I will see you later.” Is all he said, turning on his heel as a sleek black car approached. “I bid both of you goodnight.” He got into the car, and it disappeared into the night.

“See you’re still wearing my jumper,” John noted, standing next to Sherlock.

“Figured you wouldn’t want it back since, as you said, I sucked a dick with it on.” Sherlock replied in a low voice. “Wouldn’t want it back when it’s covered in AIDs, right?”

John could hear the Sherlock’s bitterness. “Is this about Lestrade dragging you to Barts the other day?”

“It’s about a lot of things.” Sherlock replied, exhaling smoke slowly. John grabbed him gently by the chin, surprised when Sherlock didn’t protest as he turned the teen’s head left and right to examine the bruises in the overhead light of the streetlamp.

“It’s getting worse every time.”

“It’s not a big deal.” Sherlock pulled his face away, finishing his cigarette. 

 

John watched him for a moment, his head spinning with a million questions. Mycroft, Jim, Sherlock, the drugs, the beatings. He had to figure out something to do with Sherlock Holmes before he ended up dead. He was about to say something, when another man approaching caught both of their attention. Sherlock stiffened, his breath quickening, before he ducked into the bar without saying anything.

“Sherlock!” The man called in a sing-song voice as Sherlock disappeared. John put a hand on his hip, his stomach tightening into a knot as the man got closer. He was easily ten years Sherlock’s senior, bags under his eyeliner-rimmed eyes, hair parted perfectly. He was wearing a suit as well, a soft beige that complimented his tan skin. His knuckles were crusted with dried blood, though John could see no open wounds on them. Not his own blood, then. John’s stomach tightened even further.

“And who are you?” The man asked softly, eyes glinting mischievously as he got closer. “And why are you talking to my lovely Sherlock?”

“I’m a friend of his,” John forced himself to say, surprised at how even his voice was. “Who are you?”

“His owner,” the man said nastily. “Though most people would use the term ‘boyfriend’, I suppose.”

John’s jaw went slack. “Jim, I assume?”

“Oh, a bit informal, are we?” Jim smirked. “Most know me by Moriarty.” He stopped outside of the bar’s door, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “He’s quite a pretty boy, isn’t he?” He glanced at John, a sinister smile on his face. “I’ll let you take a turn at him, you know. First time for free and everything.” He paused. “You’ll have to wear a condom, though. I haven’t had my pretty pet tested in a while.”

John forced himself to breathe evenly, his hands fisting at his sides. Moriarty was watching him with utter delight.

“Oooh, you didn't know that, did you? That your precious little victim was a whore?”

John had him up against the wall in seconds, his hands around Jim’s throat. “I suggest you leave, before I give you a taste of your own fucking medicine.” His hands tightened, expert pressure upon Moriarty’s jugular. Moriarty squirmed, gasping as he grabbed at John’s hand. John let go moments later, breathing heavily. “Leave, now.”

“Feisty, you are.” Moriarty smirked, though John could tell he was shaken as he stood straight, brushing off his suit jacket. “I’d be careful if I were you, Watson.”

He looked John up and down, his face unreadable, before he turned and walked down the street, whistling joyously. John watched him go, trying to even his breathing, then let himself into the bar, determined to get a drink to calm his nerves.


	5. A Hint Of Sherlock's Perspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to try giving a glimpse into Sherlock's side of things, and then it escalated from there. Tags edited appropriately.

_Sherlock_

Sherlock sighed as he entered Jim’s flat, throwing his keys on the ground and kicking his boots off next to them.

“Love,” Jim said from his chair, smiling as Sherlock approached him. “Ready for a busy night?”

“Do you have the good stuff?” Sherlock said in response, and Jim nodded, handing him a baggie full of pure white powder. “Then I’m ready for whatever.”

Sherlock took a seat on the couch next to Jim’s chair, pulling open the kit of supplies lying on the coffee table and pouring some of the powder into the spoon. Flicking on the lighter, he held it underneath the spoon, watching as the heroin began to slowly melt.

“Interesting man, your friend.” Jim said, watching him like a hawk.

“He’s not a friend.” Sherlock said quickly. “Just someone I know.” He finished melting the smack and reached for the tourniquet, tying it around his arm.

“Sure, love,” Jim said with a sadistic smirk, getting on his knees in front of Sherlock and taking the needle from him. He drew the heroin into it, smiling at Sherlock as he felt for a vein and slid the needle in. Sherlock leaned his head back, his pupils growing wide as the dope was injected into his bloodstream. He gasped softly as the euphoria rushed over him, pulling him into nothingness.

“There we are, love.” Jim said as Sherlock went limp beneath him. He pulled Sherlock to his feet, dragging the stumbling teen to the bedroom with one worn out mattress. He stripped Sherlock slowly, taking his time dragging his fingers across the alabaster skin as he did so. When he was done he pushed Sherlock onto the bed. Sherlock twisted around, his breathing slowing as darkness encroached his vision. After a moment, everything was black.

Sherlock woke sometime later, his mouth dry and tongue thick. He wasn’t sure how many hours had passed or what time it was. His body felt like liquid. 

The space between his legs was slick and warm. Reaching a hand down in curiosity, Sherlock withdrew his shaking fingers, examining the shining blood on them.

“Jim?” He called out weakly. The flat was eerily quiet. He sat up with a soft groan, his entire body aching. He got to his feet, pulling on sweatpants and a hoodie from the floor as he walked to the door.

“Jim?” He said again, opening the door and poking his head around the corner. Nobody. His legs shaking, he returned to the room, shoving what little he had into his backpack. Taking the Belstaff and wrapping it around himself, he shouldered the backpack and made his way out of the door, hyper aware of the blood spreading between his legs.

He knocked, once, twice on the door of John’s flat. He waited for a minute, shivering in the cold London air, then knocked again, trying not to seem too urgent. The door opened moments later.

“Sherlock?” John blinked at him. He was wearing pyjamas, his eyes crusted with sleep. “What - ? It’s six in the morning.”

“Is it?” Sherlock asked, trying to keep his voice even. “Sorry, I didn’t notice the time.”

“Are you alright?” John asked, yawning. Sherlock shifted from one foot to the other.

“I need - “ his mouth twisted hard, making talking difficult. He slurred. “I need - need you to take me to the hospital, please.”

“Are you alright?” John said again, his brain slower from the sleep he had just woken from. “You’re- you’re bleeding.”

“Please, John.” Sherlock managed, his knees buckling. “I need - “ He could feel his consciousness slipping.

“Yeah, yeah.” John said quickly, bending swiftly and picking his shoes up from their mat on the floor. He slipped them on and grabbed his keys. “Come on.”

“Might need a towel,” Sherlock mumbled, stumbling backwards towards the street where John’s car was parked.

“It’s fine,” John replied, his brain kicking into urgency as he realised just how bad Sherlock was hurt. Sherlock leaned against the car door, his thoughts turning to sludge as he struggled with the door handle. After a minute or so, he managed to pull it open and collapsed into the seat, his head pounding. His vision was spinning, his body vibrating, everything a muddled mess. He leaned his head back against the seat and forced himself to breathe.

 

_John_

“Come on,” John whispered, picking Sherlock up in his arms as though he weighed nothing. He carried him into the entrance of St. Bart’s A&E, trying not to let panic overcome him.

“John?” Sarah asked, dropping the clipboard she was holding onto the nurses’ desk as John went straight to the nearest empty gurney, depositing Sherlock onto it. Sherlock’s limp body was flocked by nurses in second as John stumbled back, hyperventilating.

“I - I don’t - “ He tried to get closer, looking for something to do. “I can help - “

Sherlock’s body began to seize, his body going rigid as it was wracked with convulsions. 

“He’s hemorrhaging!” Sarah pushed John out of the way. “Get him to the OR immediately! Someone get Johnson and tell her to meet us up there.”

“Wait, no - “ John shook his head, watching them prep Sherlock for transport. “I can assist you - “  
“You’re too close to this Watson,” Sarah said, throwing out an arm to keep John back as they began to wheel Sherlock away. “Stay here and I’ll have someone update you soon. Contact his family if you can.”

John stood, motionless with his hands behind his head as he watched them disappear. He walked in circles for a moment, trying to calm himself as he finally began to process what in the hell had just happened.

Mycroft arrived not even an hour later, taking a seat beside John in the waiting silently, his grip white-knuckled on the handle of his umbrella. John offered him a lukewarm cup of coffee. He took it.

“Did you know?” Mycroft asked quietly. John swallowed audibly.

“I didn’t want to spook him.” He replied just as quietly. “I was afraid that if I...pushed the issue too far, he would disappear and then who knows what would have happened tonight.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft said softly, and John arched an eyebrow of surprise. “I’m glad he came to you for help, John.”

John was about to reply when he saw Johnson approaching. He set his coffee cup on the table beside him, unable to trust his shaking hands not to drop it.

“Well?” Mycroft asked her.

“Janette - “

“Sherlock,” Mycroft corrected automatically with a small growl. Johnson flushed.

“Sherlock,” she nodded. “Had a brain bleed, but Dr. Shepherd believes he was able to reach it in time to avoid any deficits. We also took care of the, erm, vaginal tearing - “

John’s brain stopped working momentarily. “Vaginal tearing…?”

“Later, John.” Mycroft said, then nodded for Johnson to continue.

“And we started a full panel rape kit, as well as a full screening for any sexually transmitted infections. Sherlock’s recovering in the ICU now, and should be awake soon if you’d like to see her.”

Mycroft growled softly but said nothing, dismissing Johnson with a nod of his head. She scurried away.

“I don’t…” John shook his head.

“Come, John.” Mycroft sighed dramatically. “Surely they teach you about the _existence_ of transgender people in medical school, at the very least?”

“Well, yeah.” John said. “I just didn’t think…”

“All the pieces were right in front of you, John. As always, you see but you do not observe.” Mycroft stood. “Let’s go see how he’s doing.” Tapping his umbrella on the floor, he led John out of the waiting room to Sherlock’s room in the ICU.

Sherlock was just starting to wake up, his eyelids fluttering against the fluorescent lights as they walked in. His head was bandaged, his nose scrunching up as he slowly opened his eyes.

“Hello, brother mine.” Mycroft said gently, taking a seat next to Sherlock’s bed. John opted to stand at the foot of it, his eyes trained on Sherlock’s blanket.

“John,” Sherlock said softly, and John looked up to meet his gaze. He looked away after a moment, swiping at the hot tears prickling his eyes.

“Ready to accept my help now?” Mycroft asked.

“Bugger off,” Sherlock coughed weakly. “I can handle myself.”

“Can you?”

“He’s got me.” John said before he could stop himself. Mycroft straightened as he turned to look John in the eye.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” John licked his lips. “He can stay with me, until he gets on his feet. Until he gets clean and gets his own place. I’ll make sure that bastard doesn’t go near him again.”

“John,” Sherlock said softly, and John looked at him once again. “You don’t want to offer that before you know all the facts.”

“Facts?” John let out a dry chuckle despite himself. “What facts?”

Sherlock was quiet for several long moments, his eyes going from John to Mycroft and then the ceiling.

“You don’t have to tell him, Sherlock.” Mycroft said quietly. Sherlock huffed quietly.

“Tell me what?” John said, looking from one to the other. “What am I missing?”

“I’m…” Sherlock licked his lips nervously, avoiding John’s gaze. “Remember that comment, I made earlier, about your jumper having AIDs on it?”

John nodded.

“I wasn’t kidding.” Sherlock’s hand fisted in the cover beneath it.

“Oh,” John said softly, realising the weight of Sherlock’s words. Mycroft was squinting as his eyes roved over Sherlock.

“There’s more.” He said. John shoved his hands in his pockets as panic flickered across Sherlock’s face.

“What is it, Sherlock?” Mycroft said softly, and Sherlock turned his head to look at the far wall, talking to the air in front of him.

“I’m pregnant.”


	6. The Tapes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter's a bit all over the place and I promise it only gets worse from here

Silence enveloped the room for several very, very long minutes as John and Mycroft digested this information.

“My offer still stands.” John said, crossing his arms and looking Sherlock in the eye. Sherlock looked away shamefully, his eyes like rain. John felt his heart ache.

“John,” Mycroft said without looking at him. “Would you mind giving my brother and I a moment alone?”

 

“Are you going to hurt him?” John asked, leveling with Mycroft boldly. Mycroft glared.

“I would never. We just have a matter to discuss privately.”

“John can stay if he wants,” Sherlock said weakly from his spot in bed. “He’s stayed with me this far, he deserves the right to stay for this, too.”

Mycroft grit his teeth. “Fine.” He stood slowly, leaning slightly on his umbrella as he stepped closer to the edge of Sherlock’s bed. “Your pregnancy. How do you wish to go about it?”

“You think I should terminate,” Sherlock said quietly, a hard cough wracking his body. 

“Well, yes, but it is your body, and you’ve been denying my advice since you could walk and talk.”

“I want...” Sherlock looked at the ceiling, his breathing slightly laboured. “To keep it. Give it up for adoption, maybe.”

John stood where he was quietly, unsure what to say or if he should even say anything. That is, until Sherlock looked right at him.

“What do you think?” The teenager arched an eyebrow at him, his baritone voice practically a purr. John shifted from one foot to the other.

“It’s uh, yeah, it’s up to you.” John said, nodding slowly. “It’s up to you, Sherlock. I mean, you’ve been through quite a trauma, and nobody would blame for you for...not keeping it.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Trauma? What trauma?”

“Well, you know,” John gestured vaguely. “The brain injury and the - the bleeding…”

Sherlock sat up a little, biting his lip to stop himself from groaning in pain. “What are you on about?”

“Do you not remember?” John asked. “That’s okay, Sherlock, sometimes memory loss happens after hemorrhaging in the brain.”

“What?” Sherlock looked even more confused.

John was about to explain further when the door to the hospital room opened and Lestrade burst in, his face scarlet with rage as he threw a manilla file down on the hospital bed table.

“Where is he?” He barked, his voice so loud that Sherlock flinched away. “Where is the fucking bastard?”

“Who?” Sherlock squirmed, his eyes going wide as Lestrade paced the room furiously.

“The bastard who fucking did this to you, Sherlock, your medical file is five centimeters thick!” Lestrade exclaimed, and Sherlock flinched again. John grabbed Lestrade’s arm, forcing him still.

“Hey,” he said, his voice lowered. “You can’t yell at him. Got it?”

Lestrade took several deep breaths, hands clenched on his hips.

“I need you to tell me everything he did to you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock only stared. Lestrade took another deep breath and tried again.

“I need to know how the semen they pulled from your rape kit is mixed from seven different samples.”

Sherlock stopped breathing, his eyes going glassy as his gaze fell to his lap. Tense silence ballooned inside the room, nobody speaking for several long moments.

“Sherlock.” John said softly.

“Get out.”

“Sherlock - “

“Get. Out.” Sherlock curled up in the fetal position, pulling the cover up to his eyes and screwing them shut. The other three men looked at each other, then nodded to themselves and exited the room as instructed.

“We need a name,” Lestrade said as soon as the door shut behind them. “That bastard can’t get away with this. I mean, his medical file - broken bones, internal bleeding - and now this. I mean, the repeated sexual injuries - “

“Moriarty,” John said without thinking. “His name, it’s Jim Moriarty. Doesn’t live too far from my flat, probably, ‘cos Sherlock walked from his to mine last night.”

Lestrade looked like he could kiss him. “You’re a godsend, Watson. I’ll keep you both updated.” And with that, he turned and strode down the hallway, his coat blowing slightly behind him with the force of his steps. Mycroft looked paler than usual.

“Maybe we should go,” John suggested after a minute of staring through the window at Sherlock’s curled up figure. “Give him some space, yeah?”

“I have some things to take care of,” Mycroft nodded, the grip on his umbrella once again white-knuckled. “I shall you see soon, John.” He disappeared as well. John stared through the window for another minute, then sighed and made his way to the resident’s lounge. It was time for his next work shift.

 

_Lestrade_

 

“Bad news and bad news regarding the Holmes case,” Donovan said as she entered the Detective Inspector office. He turned to her with a deep sigh.

“Moriarty cleared out before we got there, someone must have tipped him off.” She said, one hand on the radio on her hip. 

“And the other bad news?”

“There are tapes.” Donovan said quietly, clearing her throat.

“That’s good news, Donovan.”

“Wait until you see them.”

And so, two hours later, they were both inside a conference room, ready to review the tapes, each with pen in hand and notepad in front of them. All of the tapes were labeled with various dates. Greg chose the earliest one and put it in the VHS player.

The room on tape was dimly lit, filled with seven or so men lounging around and passing a joint between themselves. 

There was a bare mattress in the corner, and Lestrade immediately recognised a younger-looking Sherlock, naked and bound to the bed frame by his wrists. He was blindfolded and limp. He twitched as a new man approached him, shushing him gently as he slid a needle into Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock arched for a moment, and then went limp again, giving a soft sigh of relief.

One of the men passed the joint and then stood, undressing slowly as he approached the bed. Lestrade fought his nausea as they watched him part Sherlock’s legs and force himself in, ignoring Sherlock’s small groan of pain. After several minutes of enjoying himself, the man finished and climbed off the bed, moving to the side as the next man stepped up. This one was a lot more violent, pushing Sherlock’s body into the mattress like a rag doll. Lestrade was sure he was going to be sick.

“I see you’ve found the tapes.” Said a deep voice behind them and Lestrade turned to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, dressed in black skinny jeans and an equally dark, baggy hoodie. Lestrade scrambled for the remote to switch the TV off.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock drawled. “I’ve seen them all before.” 

“Shouldn’t you still be in hospital?” Lestrade asked exasperatedly, watching Sherlock saunter forward and file through the box of tapes nonchalantly.

“Hospitals cramp my style,” Sherlock replied, his face one of mild interest as he combed through the box. He seemed determined to look as collected as possible.

“We’re doing everything we can to catch him, Sherlock.” Lestrade said quietly, his eyes trained on the teen as he spoke.

“Don’t bother,” Sherlock sighed, apparently done with the box as he turned back towards the door. He pulled the hood of his sweater up as he did so, tucking his curls into it and making his way out of the office.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade got up from his chair and followed with a sigh. “It’d be a lot easier to catch him if you cooperated.”

Sherlock shrugged him off in reply. “Give it up, Lestrade. He has you and I both beat.”

John appeared, panting as he jogged into the Yard. “You’re not - supposed - to leave - without - me - Sherlock.” He panted, doubled over with his hands on his knees. “That was the deal.”

“I wanted to see if the dear Detective Inspector had confiscated any of my belongings from Jim’s flat.” Sherlock replied dryly, picking at a loose thread in his sweater. He seemed smaller, somehow, as if he had been deflated. He turned to Lestrade. “Do you?”

“Uh, yeah.” Lestrade nodded. “But it’s all evidence, Sherlock, I can’t let you have it back.”

“Even my jumpers?” Sherlock asked bitterly. He scuffed the toe of his boot against the ground. “Fine.”

“I’ll buy you some new ones,” John told him, and nobody could miss the way Sherlock’s cheeks turned red. 

“But you have to promise me no more running off, yeah?”

“Your flat is boring,” Sherlock sighed, his eyes going wide. “I can’t stand being there all day while you’re at work.”

“The doctor ordered you to be on bedrest, Sherlock, that was the only way she would discharge you.”

They bickered at each other for another minute or so, fondness in their voices, and Lestrade watched them, noting how oddly domestic it was for Sherlock. Almost as if they were a couple, squabbling over something trivial like which laundry detergent to get or what to have for dinner. He smiled to himself; Sherlock, for the first time in all the years Lestrade had known him, looked calm, sure of himself around John. Looked like the kid he was.  
“Alright you two, quit having a domestic in my station and get yourselves home,” he grinned as he watched Sherlock’s cheeks go red once again.

“Not having a domestic,” he muttered, shuffling past Lestrade towards the Yard’s front entrance. John watched him go, shaking his head a little.

“Guess we’re off to buy him some new clothes, then.” He shook Lestrade’s hand. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“I’ll keep you updated,” Lestrade told him again. “John?”

“Yeah?”

“Just make sure you take care of him.”

 

_Sherlock_

Before Sherlock knew it, two months at John’s flat had passed. Two months without word from Jim, a fact that left Sherlock feeling...strange. He lay awake on the couch, staring at the ceiling in contemplation with his hands steepled beneath his chin.

He stiffened slightly as he heard the door open, accompanied by a woman’s drunken giggles and the sound of panting. He closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep as John and his one-night-stand stumbled past the couch and to the bedroom. After the bedroom door shut, Sherlock opened his eyes, despising the way his stomach twisted.

He returned his gaze to the ceiling, the twisting of his stomach intensifying as the sounds from John’s room escalated into moans and thumping. He closed his eyes and willed the sour taste in his mouth to go away; he did not think about John that way. He was determined not to. There was no need for him to be jealous.

And yet, as Sherlock forced himself to sleep, something he had been turning over and over in his mind was suddenly decided.


	7. The Losing Side / Miami

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aldfajd;fakd i know the time jumps are gonna be weird i apologise in advance
> 
> this is told from sherlock's perspective btw

“I’m going to Miami.”

John looked up from the paper he was reading, blinking several times as Sherlock’s words washed over him. “What?”

Sherlock’s grip on the strap of his rucksack tightened. “Florida,” he corrected. “Miami, Florida.”

“As in, the states?”

“Precisely.”

John looked confused and concerned. “What brought this on?”

“An old friend of mine requires my help in her husband’s trial.” Sherlock said, making sure to keep his voice devoid of any emotion. He stared at the ground.

“So you’re just up and going to Miami, just like that?”

“If you would like, I can move my things to storage.” Sherlock swallowed. “I’m not sure how long the duration of my stay there will be, so I understand if you don’t want my belongings cluttering your flat.”

“No,” John shook his head, his brows furrowed in confusion. “No, Sherlock, I don’t mind holding onto your things. Erm, when do you leave?”

“My plane departs in a few hours.” Sherlock cleared his throat and stuck out his hand. “I’m going to go ahead and head to the airport. Until next time, John.”

He shook John’s hand without making eye contact and turned to leave without further ado, opening the door and stepping out onto the pavement without looking back. Closing the Belstaff tighter around himself, he raised a hand to hail a taxi. Mycroft was right, he realised; sentiment was a chemical defect most often found on the losing side.


	8. London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock arrives back in London, a year and a half after departing for Miami.

Sherlock looked out of the plane window at the sprawling city of London below. It had been a year and a half since he had last been here; he was now eighteen and baby-less, having given the beautiful baby girl to a gay couple hailing from somewhere in California. 

The old friend he had agreed to help, Ms. Hudson, had also turned out to be the landlady of the old abandoned flat Sherlock used to frequent; as a thanks, she had agreed to get it fixed up and rent it to him for a discount. The trial itself had only taken a few months; he had stayed longer to stall, taking a small road trip across the states with a vanful of bearded hippies.

Sherlock’s mobile began to rang the moment he stepped into the airport; putting it to his ear, he made his way outside, desperate for a cigarette.

“Back in London, are we?” Mycroft drawled from the other end.

“Why call and ask if you already know?” Sherlock replied, lighting his cigarette and taking a deep draw.

“It’s about time. I was beginning to think you had decided to become an American hippie.”

“Just needed time to recover,” Sherlock exhaled smoke slowly. “Get my head on straight after everything that happened.”

“I suppose everything is better now?”

“Got myself a flat,” Sherlock replied, flicking his ashes. “But you already knew that.”

“I did indeed.”

A minute of silence passed. Sherlock cleared his throat.

“I’ll call you once everything’s settled, yeah?”

“Please do.” Mycroft said, his voice gruff. He hung up without saying goodbye. Pulling the phone away from his ear, Sherlock sighed and hailed a taxi, ready to get to his new flat and sleep.

Sherlock spent the morning of the next day putting up the decor in Baker Street. Standing with his feet bare against the hardwood floor, he slid a pair of earphones onto the cow skull adorning the wall above the mantel, the finishing touch to a very macabre theme. He took a step back, admiring his handiwork. 221B was coming along very nicely.

The only thing left to do was collect his things from John’s flat. Sherlock lit a cigarette to prepare himself, stepping to the door and pulling on his boots.

Twenty minutes later, he was standing outside of John’s flat, his stomach fluttering. Dropping his cigarette and crushing it with his boot, he swallowed his anxiety, raised his fist and knocked.

A tall, slim, olive-skinned woman with sleek black hair answered, smiling at him. “Yes?”

“Oh, erm,” Sherlock blinked in surprise. “Sorry, does John Watson still live here?”

“He’s in the shower at the moment. Can I help you?”

“Erm,” Sherlock ignored the sinking feeling in his abdomen. “I just came by to collect my things. They were in a big box, last time I was around, does he still have them?”

“Sherlock, right?”

He nodded.

“Yeah, there’s a box with that label in his closet, hang on a moment.” She disappeared behind the door, returning moments later with the box in question. “Shall I tell him you stopped by?”

“Uh, no, don’t have to.” Sherlock nodded. “Thanks.” He watched her close the door, then set off down the pavement, his head swimming. He couldn’t remember if he had seen a ring on her finger or not.

He let himself into Baker Street, throwing his keys on the ground and kicking his boots off beside them before setting the box on the couch. The couch - it took Sherlock a second to realise that he hadn’t had furniture when he left. He turned around from the kitchen doorway to survey the sitting room, which was punctuated with new, impeccably placed furniture.

“Mycroft,” he muttered to himself. “Dammit.”

“Yes, brother mine?” Mycroft purred from behind him, making him jump.

“I was supposed to do everything on my own, dammit.” He muttered. “How did you even get in?”

“I’m me,” Mycroft replied simply, looking around. “The decorations are a bit morbid, are they not?”

“My flat, my style.” Sherlock replied flatly. “You didn’t have to buy me furniture.” His phone pinged with an incoming message. He pulled it from his pocket, sighing when he saw it was from John.

You’re back in London?

He ignored it, shoving his mobile back into the pocket from his jeans.

“You and John having another domestic?” Mycroft smirked. Sherlock shook his head quietly and lit a cigarette. Mycroft arched his eyebrows.

“Did you see Mum and Father while you were there?” He asked asked, changing subjects smoothly.

“No,” Sherlock shook his head. “I couldn’t go there and look them in the eye. Not after everything that happened; you know that.”

Mycroft nodded. Sherlock found the nearest ashtray and flicked his ashes into it.

“I am glad you are back, my dear brother.” Mycroft murmured. “I must be getting back to the House. Enjoy your new furniture.” He tapped Sherlock endearingly on the shoulder with his umbrella, then let himself out of the flat, looking pleased with himself. 

Sherlock picked up the ashtray and carried it with him across the room, sitting down on the couch with a contented sigh. He was glad to be back in London.


	9. Benched / Jealousy

“Whiskey, neat.”

Sherlock sighed internally but prepared the drink nonetheless, setting it in front of John wordlessly. 

“You didn’t tell me you were back, Sherlock.”

“I’ve been busy.” Sherlock murmured in reply, focusing on cleaning glasses. “New flat and all.”

“So it has nothing to do with the woman that was at my apartment when you came by?” John smirked. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I don’t know what you take me for, Whiskey. Women don’t perturb me.”

“Really? Because last time I brought one around you, you up and left the country.”

Sherlock slammed the glass onto the shelf in front of him, sucking in a deep breath. “What, exactly, are you insinuating?”

“I’m just saying, with everything you’ve been through, it’s okay to be a little freaked out by sex - “

“I’m not freaked out by sex!” Sherlock snapped, drawing the attention of other bar-goers. He took a deep breath, steadying himself with his hands on the shelf in front of him. He turned around to glare at John.

“You can pay for that one, asshole.” He spat, then whirled around and pushed open the bar’s back door, lighting a cigarette the second the heel of his boot hit asphalt. He took an angry draw, slapping the line of beer cans off the ledge where they were perched and grunting in frustration as they fell to the ground. He sat on a milk crate, the heels of his hands pressed to his eyes as he tried to calm himself.

“Hey.”

He looked up to see Stamford standing over him. He sighed.

“You okay, Sherlock?”

“Sorry for losing my shit like that.” Sherlock muttered.

“That’s not what I’m concerned with. I asked if you were okay.”

“Things are just...complicated at the moment.” Sherlock replied, taking a harsh draw off his cigarette. “Staying clean and getting the flat in order.”

“You and John in a row or something?”

Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes. “I guess we just weren’t on the best terms when I left.”

“Any particular reason?”

Sherlock looked up at him and then back down again. “I’m interested in him, and he’s interested in women.” He sighed again. “He treats me like I’m some injured fawn he found in the woods.”

To Sherlock’s surprise, Stamford chuckled.

“It’s the doctor in him, ‘Lock. But trust me, he sees you as a lot more than a patient.”

“There was a woman at his flat today.” Sherlock said bitterly. “And it shouldn’t get to me, but it does. It makes me feel like my stomach’s on fire.”

“That’s called jealousy, mate.”

“Yeah, well.” Sherlock sighed once again. “I don’t like it. It’s not - it’s not something I’ve ever felt before, and I hate that he can have that effect on me.”

“Look, tell you what. Why don’t you take the rest of the night off?”

“Seriously?” Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “You’re benching me?”

“No, Sherlock, I’m not benching you. I just think you need to go home and get your head on straight.”

“You’re benching me,” Sherlock muttered, standing. “I can’t believe it. I get heartsick and you bench me.”

“Shut up,” Stamford told him. “Go home, try not to get high, and come back when your head’s on straight. Okay?”

“Are you sure you can handle the bar without me?”

“Handled it for six years without you, I can handle a few nights more.”

A moment passed. “Thanks, Mike.” Sherlock said quietly, finishing his cigarette. “I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah, see you.” Stamford nodded, watching him saunter off into the night.

\- The Next Day -

Sherlock stopped short, his stride slowing to a cautious saunter as his eyes fell upon John, sitting with his back against the wall of the New Scotland Yard cell.

"What are you in here for?" John asked dryly, as Sherlock took a seat beside him and the cell door clanged shut.

"Tagging a police cruiser." Sherlock ran a hand through his unruly curls. "You?"

"Assaulting your ex boyfriend." John replied casually, and Sherlock choked on his spit in surprise.

"You what?"

"He came into the London Shell looking for you," John explained. "And the second I saw him, I just lost it, Sherlock. I couldn't control myself - the next thing I knew, he was on the ground and my boot was breaking his nose."

"Geez, Whiskey." Sherlock muttered, leaning his head back against the cell wall. "You could've just walked away."

"No," John shook his head. "No, I couldn't. Not after everything he did to you."

They sat in silence for a moment before John suddenly slapped Sherlock on the arm.

"You've been back in London for three days and you're already back to annoying the police?"

"Had to let Lestrade know I was back," Sherlock grinned. "A decision I might have made two bottles of liquor in."

John's face fell. "You're drinking again?"

"Just for one night," Sherlock replied. "To celebrate moving into my own flat."

"It's never just one night, Sherlock. You know this. The deal was that you got your own flat after you got clean."

"I am clean." Sherlock pushed the sleeves of his jumper up, showing John his track-mark-free arms. "Hard narcotics and alcohol are not the same thing."

"They are as far as addiction goes," John chided, knocking Sherlock gently with his shoulder.

"Leave it be, Doctor." Sherlock replied dryly. Silence enveloped them.

"How was Miami?" John asked eventually, examining his bloody knuckles.

"It was good," Sherlock nodded slowly, focusing on making sure his words didn't slur. The rest of the alcohol was starting to hit him now. "Hot. Too sunny." He stared at John, aware of the fondness showing in his eyes but too drunk to really care about hiding it. "Gave away the baby, though, so that's all good."

John nodded. "Mycroft showed me a picture of her. She looks just like you."

"I'm aware," Sherlock drawled. "She's got the Holmes features. How unfortunate." He pulled a cigarette from the crumpled pack in his pocket and went to lit it.

"Oi!" Lestrade called from across the room. "Don't you dare light that cigarette, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock scowled at him. John plucked the cigarette from the younger man's lips, holding it between his fingers. Sherlock's scowl deepened, a soft whine escaping from his throat in his drunknness.

"She's got your eyes, you know."

"Yes, I'm aware," Sherlock said again. "I did give birth to her and all, you know. Held her and everything." He paused, his brain finally catching up as he sat there. "Wait. You've talked to Mycroft?"

"Every now and then." John shrugged nonchalantly. "I would call him, just to get an update on you."

Sherlock tried to ignore the way his stomach fluttered at John's words. "Oh."

"Because, you know, you never answered my texts."

"I was busy."

"You were avoiding me." John corrected. "And you've been avoiding me ever since you've gotten back."

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth, unsure what to say.

"Did me bringing home a girl really freak you out that much?" John asked quietly. "I mean, bad enough that you had to leave the country?"

Sherlock sighed in exasperation. "It's not - it's not as simple as that."

"Isn't it?" John replied, looking Sherlock full in the face. "I mean, really, Sherlock, it's okay. You were recovering from all that trauma, and listening to what was going on - "

"It's not the sex!" Sherlock growled, tugging at his hair in frustration. "God, why are you all so dense? It must be so nice and relaxing in your funny little brains."

"Then what is it, Sherlock?" John asked softly in defeat. "What is it, then?"

"I was _jealous_ , John." Sherlock slurred, the alcohol in his system turning his brain fuzzy. 

"Jealous of me bringing someone home?"

"Jealous of the girl you brought home, John. God." Sherlock put his face in his hands, his eyes screwed shut.

"Oh." John blinked at him, dumbfounded. "Wait, what?"

"I was jealous that she - that she got to - " Sherlock exhaled shakily. "I just - I tried to convince myself my feelings for you stemmed from the fact that you helped me get away from Jim. And when you brought her back to the flat, I just had to - I had to get away to think about it. I can't think when I'm around you."

"So you - "

"You gave me your jumper and I think I fell in love with you." Sherlock sighed loudly, releasing his head to lean it back against the cell wall once again. "Fuck, I am so _screwed._ "

John stared at his knees, still too dumbfounded to speak.

"And then," Sherlock continued, his words slurring together once again. "Then, I go to get my things from your flat, and there's a woman there, and she's wearing a ring, and I realise just how much I - "

"Wait," John said, and Sherlock shut up, glancing at him. "You thought - You think I'm engaged to her?"

Sherlock nodded, eyebrows shooting up when John laughed.

"That's my sister, Sherlock. She's staying at my flat for a few days while she's in town."

"Oh." Sherlock's cheeks turned crimson as embarrassment washed over him. "Oh."

"It's cute though," John said quickly, biting his lip. "That you're so jealous."

"Shut - " Sherlock spluttered. "Shut up! It's not cute!" His cheeks turned, if possible, even redder. 

John smirked, leaning closer.

"Alright." Lestrade appeared at the cell door, and John and Sherlock instantly looked away from each other, both exhaling forcefully. Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "John, you're free to go." He gestured for John to stand as he unlocked the cell. Sherlock frowned, biting back a whine as John stood and walked to where Lestrade was standing.

"I'm free to go?"

"You're records been cleared." Lestrade nodded. "Mycroft took care of it. You're free to leave."

"And Sherlock?" John asked quietly.

"Overnight in the cell," Lestrade shrugged. "Unless you want to take him home and babysit him?"

"I mean - " John was cut off by a high-pitched whine from Sherlock. He fought back a smile. "I wouldn't mind doing so."

"Fine," Lestrade shrugged. "I'd rather you babysit him than me. Sherlock," he called, and Sherlock got to his feet, stumbling a little. "Come on, John's going to take you home."

"I bet he is," Sherlock purred suggestively, and heat creeped up the back of John's neck. Lestrade looked from Sherlock to John slowly, his hand vice-like on John's shoulder.

"Just make sure you make the smart decisions, John." Was all he said, and John nodded quickly, following Sherlock's stumbling figure out of New Scotland Yard onto the main street.

"Taxi!" Sherlock hiccuped, raising his hand. One appeared, seemingly out of thin air, and Sherlock climbed into clumsily as if he were an ungraceful, lanky cat.

"Lanky git," John mumbled, nudging Sherlock over. Sherlock whimpered and slid over reluctantly, his arm thrown around John's waist.

"Back to your flat, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded, his head nuzzling against John's chest. John got the cabbie's attention.

"221B Baker Street, please."


	10. Darkness

"John," Sherlock murmured, pressing him against the wall the moment the flat door closed behind them. His lips went straight to John's neck, kissing there sloppily.

"Sherlock, no," John said, prying him off and steering him towards the couch. "You need to sleep this off." 

There were empty liquor and beer bottles littering the sitting room floor. Sherlock stumbled through them, knocking them over and sending them rolling across the hardwood floor as they made their way to the couch.

"Jesus, Sherlock, did you drink all of this by yourself?" John exclaimed, his eyes roving over Sherlock's skinny frame. "It's a wonder you didn't get alcohol poisoning."

"High tolerance," Sherlock hiccuped. "And I'm a bartender, remember? I know how to mix my liquors." He pushed John onto the couch and fell down on top of him, his elbow digging into John's stomach.

"Ouch, Sherlock - " John fought to sit up, his hands resting gently on Sherlock's wrists. "Let's just go to your bedroom, yeah?"

Sherlock's face instantly lit up. "Okay, if you insist - "

"Not for that," John said quickly. "So you can sleep on something comfortable."

"Mmm," Sherlock grumbled, getting to his feet reluctantly and making his way towards the bedroom, his hand intertwined with John's to tug him along.

John followed unsurely, his stomach fluttering as Sherlock's slender fingers pushed the bedroom door open. He let go of John's hand and stumbled his way to the bed, which looked barren and barely-used.   
Sherlock whined, a high-pitched, needy noise that made his Adam's apple bob as his usually nimble fingers struggled drunkenly with the hem of his t-shirt.

"Oh, you git," John muttered, stepping forward and getting a determined hold of the holey t-shirt. He pulled it upward and over Sherlock's unruly curls, smearing the eyeliner Sherlock was wearing even further and revealing a charcoal-grey, half-tank binder.

John took a moment to examine; it contrasted nicely with Sherlock's paper-white skin, digging into the bottom of Sherlock's ribs. The exposed flesh of Sherlock's abdomen was covered in faded stretch marks, no doubt from the baby weight, and was littered with fresh and old horizontal crimson slashes.

"Sherlock," John sighed softly, but Sherlock just pushed his hands away, struggling with the button of his trousers as he stumbled closer to the bed. Dropping his trousers with a triumphant sigh, he collapsed onto the mattress, his pupils wide as his gaze met the ceiling.

"Right, no." John tsked, and rolled a protesting Sherlock onto his side facing the bedside table, tucking his impossibly long legs beneath him and covering him with the white, starchy blanket laying on the floor.

"Don't go," Sherlock slurred as John turned to leave.

"I'll be right out here if you need me, Sherlock." He said gently, squeezing Sherlock's hand. "You just worry about sleeping, okay? I'm not going anywhere."

"Okay," Sherlock replied sleepily, closing his eyes. John waited until he was snoring softly before turning off the light, making his way to the sitting room. Pulling a book from the bookshelf, he settled into one of the chairs and began to read, keeping an ear open in case Sherlock began to vomit or call out for help.

John was dozing off, cheek in the palm of his hand and eyes half-closed, when he heard Sherlock begin to whimper. It wasn't very loud, but it was a panicked sound, low and quick. It jerked John from his sleep, and he frowned as it grew in urgency before suddenly dying down, plunging the flat into silence. He stood slowly, several of his joints popping as he stretched and made his way to the bedroom.

The room was as dark as he had left it, but the air within the four walls was tense. He pushed the door further open, fingers searching for the chain of the overhead bulb. Finding it, he tugged it on, flooding the room in harsh light. 

What it revealed made John's heart sink to his stomach.

Sherlock was curled in the fetal position on an impossibly small corner of the mattress, his body tucked against the wall, one of his hands tugging obsessively at his hair. His eyes were screwed shut, his other hand's nails digging into the flesh of his concave stomach so hard it drew blood. He whimpered again, a pathetic sound that reverberated around the room.

"Sherlock?" John asked softly and Sherlock's body convulsed in surprise, his eyes snapping open as he shuddered.

"John?"

"It's okay," John said softly, reaching out a hand. Sherlock yanked back, his body hitting against the wall forcefully in his attempt to get away from John's touch.

"What is it?" John asked softly. Sherlock panted, attempting to even his breathing as he fought to not let his voice crack.

"The times...he didn't drug me..."

John's stomach twisted hard, his head swimming with sudden nausea.

"He would...keep me chained to the bed...in the dark," Sherlock swallowed audibly, his fingers tugging strands of hair from his head compulsively. "Absolute darkness, so I could never know when it was coming."

"It?"

"The men," Sherlock hiccuped, "I wouldn't be able to know when they were there. And the hitting."

John swallowed past the lump in his throat, unsure what to say.

"I gave birth, once, in the dark." Sherlock said quietly, staring at the wall. "I don't...I don't know what he did with it. The baby. I don't remember it crying."

John fought the vomit rising in his throat, taking several deep breaths to calm himself. He hoped sober Sherlock wouldn't remember this conversation in the morning.

"Sherlock, that's...that's terrible. I'm so sorry."

Silence enveloped them for several minutes. John sat on the edge of the bed, questions filling his mind. He wasn't sure if there would ever be another time in which Sherlock would be this vulnerable. After a moment, unsure what else to do, he laid down, pulling Sherlock gently from the corner and into his arms. Sherlock was crying silently, tears streaming down his face as he buried his face in John's chest.

"He won't hurt you anymore, Sherlock. It's okay."

Sherlock sniffled, his hands fisting in John's jumper. John held him tightly, stroking his hair until Sherlock was asleep again. He stared up at the ceiling as Sherlock slept against him, his head swimming. The only thing he knew for sure was that he wished he had done more than beat Jim Moriarty. John wished with a seething feeling in his stomach that he had wiped Jim Moriarty's life from his body.


	11. Sherrinford / Rehab

Sherlock woke with a small start, his head pounding and something unusually warm beneath his cheek. He opened his eyes with a small groan, his nose flooded with the smell of vanilla, coffee and antiseptic. Definitely unusual.

He sat up further, startled to see the form of John Watson asleep beneath him. He silently and carefully disentangled himself, climbing cat-like over John's slumbering figure and plucking his t-shirt from the floor. He tugged it on and ran a hand through his curls, then shuffled from the room in a quest for painkillers. 

Making his way into the small bathroom, he opened the mirror's cabinet and roved over it with his eyes, making a small noise of triumph as his eyes fell on the bottle of paracetamol. He twisted it open and poured three into his hand, swallowing them dry before placing the bottle back where he found it and closing the cabinet.

Satisfied, he turned off the bathroom light and sauntered into the sitting room, looking down when his feet hit the bottles from the night before.

"Oh fuck off," he muttered, kicking them out of the way on his trip to the kitchen. 

He was uncharastically hungry, and so he rifled through the kitchen drawers until he found the piece of paper with the number of his favorite pizza delivery place. He retrieved his mobile silently from the bedroom and returned to the kitchen, calling and ordering his usual pizza in a large. He went into the sitting room and sat in the large, black leather chair to wait.

The pizza arrived twenty minutes later, and Sherlock paid the delivery man his balance and tip before returning to the chair and pulling a slice from the box. It was then that he realised he didn't have a TV, and so he sat eating in silence, contemplating.

John emerged a little while later, yawning as he shuffled into the living room.

"There's pizza," Sherlock gestured to the box lazily, not looking up from the giant book in his lap.  
"How're you feeling?" John asked, glancing at the box with mild interest.

"Fine," Sherlock replied, still not looking up from his book. "Besides the hangover, but that's to be expected."

He could feel John staring at him. He looked up slowly, frowning at the look on John's face. 

"What?"

"You just...seemed to be having a rough time last night." John said carefully, picking up a slice of pizza.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I tend to get rowdy when I'm drunk. Please do not let it sully your opinion of my character."

He could tell from the way John grimaced that it was his drunken antics that worried the other man. His eyes narrowed even further and he steepled his hands beneath his chin.

"What did I tell you last night?" He inquired, watching John pause.

"It's better if you don't remember."

Sherlock blinked, caught off guard by John's answer. "And what does that mean?"

"Do you remember anything from last night?" John asked, and the way he looked Sherlock over made the latter shiver.

"Not really," Sherlock replied, suddenly nervous. "Why?"

"You told me you were jealous of the girl I brought home the night before you left."

"Oh," Sherlock's stomach fluttered, but the look on John's face didn't go away. "But that's not what concerned you."

"No, Sherlock, that didn't concern me at all." John smiled softly.

"So what did?"

"It's not important, Sherlock."

"It changed your opinion of me." Sherlock stated quietly, and John didn't argue. "So what is it?"  
"You told me about the dark," John said slowly after a moment. "About...why you're scared of it. About the other baby."

Sherlock's stomach turned to stone. He regretted eating the pizza.

"I see." He put on a mask, shutting down the dread and any other emotion churning within him. 

"I'm sorry for making things between us uncomfortable."

John sighed. "It's not - "

"I think you should go, John." SHerlock said quietly. "Take the pizza, if you don't mind."

"Sherlock - "

"John."

John sighed, snatching up the pizza box on his way to the door. Sherlock waited until he was gone, then locked the flat's door behind him and made his way straight to the bathroom, shoving two fingers down his throat until he vomited into the toilet bowl.

He got on his knees and did it again, heaving as he did so. Repeating until he was satisfied, he leaned back and flushed the toilet, then sat with his back against the bathroom wall, running his hands over his face.

He woke up some time later in the same position, unsure when he had fallen asleep. Opening his eyes, he jumped at the sight of Mycroft standing in the bathroom doorway.

"I locked the front door," Sherlock growled. "How did you even get in?"

Mycroft didn't reply as he stared his younger brother down.

"What?" Sherlock snapped. "Why are you even here?"

"I'm concerned."

"About wh - " Sherlock sighed as realisation washed over him. "You had my flat bugged?"

"And cameras installed in the kitchen and sitting room. With good reason." Mycroft gestured to the figure before him.

"Piss off."

"You didn't tell me about the other baby, Sherlock."

"There was no need to." Sherlock snapped as he got to his feet and pushed past his brother. "It died." He went into the kitchen and opened the fridge, extracting a beer and twisting it open.

“Since when are you drinking again?”

“Since I don’t have a baby to keep alive inside me.” Sherlock growled, downing half the bottle in one go.

“Don’t do this to yourself, Sherlock. Don’t let your vices get the best of you.” Mycroft said quietly, and Sherlock ignored him, making his way back into the sitting room.

“You were supposed to be different when you came back to London,” Mycroft reminded him, following. “You got off to such a great start, what happened?”

“Piss off.”

“Do not,” Mycroft growled, grabbing Sherlock by the wrist and forcing his brother to look at him. “Let John Watson destroy you, Sherlock.”

“John has nothing to do with this.”

"On the contrary," Mycroft smirked. "It has everything to do with him. You left the country because of John Watson."

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" Sherlock took a swig of his beer. "I went to Miami for Ms. Hudson. That's it."

"Because you were on the fence about Ms. Hudson's trial for weeks," Mycroft replied. "You didn't decide to go until John brought home that one night stand and made you aware of your feelings for him."

"Shut up."

"You thought you two were together, isn't that right?" Mycroft continued. "Until he brought her home. And you got your feelings hurt."

"Piss. _Off_." Sherlock downed the rest of his beer. "Get out of my flat."

"I warned you, Sherlock." Mycroft sighed. "Allowing people into your heart will only get you hurt in the end."

"You don't know anything about me." Sherlock growled.

"When were you going to tell me about the other baby, Sherlock? Ever?" Mycroft tapped his umbrella impatiently on the ground.

"I told you there was no point," Sherlock snapped. "It died. There's nothing else to it."

"You don't know that for sure."

Sherlock froze, his hand fisting at his side. "And what in the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Mycroft only surveyed him cooly. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"You knew. You knew anyway, you fucking asshole."

"I have eyes and ears everywhere, Sherlock."

Sherlock stopped again, his brain slowly catching up. "Wait. Wait a minute. What did you mean, 'you don't know that for sure'? The baby died. It's dead."

Mycroft said nothing. Sherlock dropped the beer bottle, letting it crash and break into pieces on the floor.

"Mycroft?"

"It's not dead, Sherlock." Mycroft said quietly, his grip tightening on his umbrella. "His name is Sherrinford. He's about - "

"Two and a half," Sherlock said softly, his gaze dropping to the floor. "Oh my God." 

Mycroft watched him evenly, biting slightly at his lip. Sherlock stared at the floor, digesting this information.

"Is Jim the father?"

"No," Mycroft replied, almost automatically. "The father is a man by the name of Victor Trevor."

Sherlock barked out a hysteric-sounding laugh. "I don't know if that's worse or not." He went back to the kitchen and opened the cabinet above the sink, retrieving a bottle of hard liquor, opening it and taking a long, long drink from it. He set it on the counter, his entire body shaking. Mycroft joined him in the kitchen, taking a seat at the table and never taking his eyes off his younger brother.

"Where is he?"

"Taken care of," Mycroft nodded slowly. "He has excellent caretakers, but he knows they're not his parents."

Sherlock laughed again, his grip iron-tight on the neck of the bottle.

"He knows of you," Mycroft continued carefully. "Knows who you are, what you are to him."

Sherlock tried to calm himself, his hand once again tugging hair from his curls. "So this entire time, you knew. You knew he was alive and you knew he was - " He stopped, his voice on the edge of breaking.

"If you knew of it, Jim would've known as well. It was for your safety, Sherlock."

Sherlock was across the room in seconds, lunging himself at his brother in a desperate attempt to land a hit. Mycroft was on his feet in an instant, grabbing Sherlock's wrists and forcing him still.

"My safety?" Sherlock growled, struggling against him. "Do you know how much I hated myself, thinking that I had done something wrong? Thinking _I_ had been the one that killed it?"

"It wasn't your fault, Sherlock!" Mycroft snapped at him. "The conditions he kept you in, the things he did - "

"I was weak," Sherlock spat, yanking himself free and going back to the bottle. "Too weak to stop it. You think I don't know that?"

Mycroft watched him down a quarter of the bottle, unsure what to say. After a moment, he spoke.

"This needs to stop, Sherlock. You aren't helping anyone by destroying yourself."

"What does it matter?"

"It matters to me." Mycroft snapped. "I worry about you. Constantly."

Sherlock snorted. "That's why you kicked me to the curb when I came out."

Mycroft paused, looking at the ground. "I was ignorant, Sherlock. Scared. Transgenderism - "  
Sherlock snorted again.

" - Was still quite a new concept to the world at large. I reacted poorly and I will forever be sorry for that."

"And then you kidnapped my child and kept it secret from me." Sherlock smiled coldly, his words starting to slur together a bit. "Quite on track for the Holmes record, wouldn't you say?"

"It was for your own good," Mycroft said deliberately, his gaze boring into Sherlock's back. "You were young, Sherlock, too young to even think about taking care of a child. In the hands of your abuser and using drugs. Would you have wanted him to be around that?"

"It would have been better than thinking he was dead!" Sherlock slammed his hand on the counter in front of him, his voice rising. He raised the bottle.

"That's enough." Mycroft pulled the bottle from his hands. "This is enough, Sherlock. You need to get clean. You need to get your life back on track."

Sherlock stood there for a moment, breathing heavily. "I know," he said quietly, staring at the ground. He ran his hands over his face. "I just...I know."

"Go to rehab, Sherlock." Mycroft said quietly. "Get sober. Come back and meet your son."

Sherlock sniffled, wiping his nose on the back of his hand as he stared up at Mycroft in disbelief. 

“You mean it?”

“He deserves to know his father, Sherlock, but not when you’re like this.”

Sherlock began to pace, lighting a cigarette with shaking fingers. “I don’t know if I can.”

“You don’t have a choice, Sherlock.” Mycroft said quietly. “Do it for him. Do it for yourself.”

Darkness began to gather outside as Sherlock packed a bag. All he could think about were Mycroft’s words:

_“His name is Sherrinford.”_


	12. Finally.

With a deep breath, Sherlock slotted his key into the lock and opened up the door to 221, letting himself in. Closing the door behind him, he took the stairs two at a time and took another deep breath as he entered the flat, dropping his backpack on the floor and kicking his boots off as he did so. He looked around. Everything was how he left it.

He had about an hour and a half until his shift at the London Shell. It had taken everything in his talking ability to convince Mycroft to let him keep his bartending job, including a very awkward meeting between his brother and Stamford, and the promise that if he so much as eyed a bottle of liquor wrong he would quit, but Mycroft had reluctantly agreed. Sherlock plucked the backpack off the floor and took it to his bedroom, where he deposited it onto the bed and began to unpack it.

An hour and a half later, he stood outside of the bar, smoking a cigarette to kill the time before his shift officially started. He watched the doors of Bart's hospital, his mind on John as the minutes ticked away. Finishing his cigarette, he threw it on the ground and crushed it with his boot before making his way inside.

"Head on straight?" Stamford asked him, as Sherlock let himself behind the bar.

"Yeah," Sherlock nodded, his mouth quirking upwards in a smile as he found his customary rag and threw it onto his shoulder.

"Good man," Stamford clapped him on the shoulder. "Good to have you back again. Bar's not the same without you."

Sherlock waved his praise away with his hand, then began taking orders, falling quickly back into his rhythm.

"Whiskey, neat." 

Sherlock sighed, turning to face John across the bar counter. "Isn't this some form of stalking?"  
"I'm just here for a drink, Sherlock."

"I call bullshit." Sherlock replied, making the drink anyway and setting it between them.

"Fine," John conceded. "I wanted to see how you were doing and Mike told me you were working tonight."

Sherlock threw a glare in Stamford's direction before turning back to the man in front of him. "I'm fine."  
"Heard you were at rehab," John said, and Sherlock glared at Stamford's back again.

"I was." He nodded slowly, pulling glasses from the shelf to clean them. "I'm back now."

"I'm glad." John said, nodding awkwardly. "I, erm, I missed you."

Sherlock's stomach fluttered but he didn't say anything  
.  
"Look, Sherlock," John sighed. "Can you stop giving me the cold shoulder for a moment? I want to talk about what happened last time we were together."

“There is nothing to talk about.”

“Sherlock - “

“I’m working.”

“You’re cleaning glasses.”

Sherlock sighed loudly, setting the glass he was holding down onto the counter in front of him. “What is it, John? What are you so adamant to talk about?”

“You were jealous of the girl I brought home.”

“Your point?”

“You have feelings for me.”

“How unfortunate for me.” 

John sighed. "Can you stop being such a douche for like, two seconds, Sherlock?"

Sherlock smirked. "It's been a rough month, John. Forgive me if I'm not exactly in the best mood."

John squinted. "You're balding in spots."

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. He messed his hair, clearing his throat. "Quite an observation, John."

"You've been pulling your hair."

"Yes, I assume you're familiar with the condition, Doctor."

"I am. Most of the time, it's stress-triggered." John looked apprehensive. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Have you been stressed lately?"

"I've been going through withdrawals, Whiskey, it's not exactly the greatest time."

John's eyes flickered downward, then back up again. Sherlock analyzed him as silence stretched between the two.

"Have you talked to Mycroft?" John asked, fingers ghosting over his glass.

"I did before rehab." Sherlock said slowly. "Why?"

"Well, erm." John cleared his throat, obviously nervous. "That thing we talked about, last time we were together, the thing in the dark - "

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. "You know about Sherrinford?"

John coughed. "Ah, so he did tell you."

Sherlock nearly bolted the counter, seeing red as rage washed over him. "You knew? When?"

John leaned back, looking as if he was scared Sherlock was going to punch him.

"When. Did. You. Find. Out?" Sherlock spat.

"When you were in Miami." John said quickly, eyes roving over Sherlock's shaking form. "The baby spiked a fever and came into the A&E, and - he looked just like you. I didn't know for sure until I saw Mycroft with him."

Sherlock had to do everything in his power to stop himself from punching John in the mouth. "So this entire time, you knew. At the Yard, that night - I told you my baby had died in the dark, and _you knew he was alive?_ "

John swallowed audibly. "Mycroft wanted me to be the baby's personal doctor. He told me not to tell you."

"Fratricide." Sherlock muttered, chuckling a bit hysterically. "I'm going to end up committing fratricide."

"Come on, Sherlock."

"Why would you keep that from me?" Sherlock asked quietly after his laughter had faded, not meeting John's gaze. 

"Because your brother asked me to."

"And since when are you on Mycroft's side?" Sherlock gripped the edge of the counter so hard his knuckles turned white.

“Since you ran off to Miami without any notice,” John retorted. “What was I supposed to do, ring you up and say ‘hey, your baby that you don’t know about is in the A&E?”

Sherlock turned around and began to clean the glasses on the shelf with his rag without response, huffing. John finished his whiskey.

"He looks just like you, Sherlock. A smart ass like you, to boot."

Sherlock didn't look up from the glass in his hand.

"He asks about you."

Sherlock gripped the glass so hard he crushed it, the cylinder breaking into shards. He stared down at his bleeding hand and tried to even his breathing. He didn't say anything, however, and John continued.

"Mycroft told me that once you got back from rehab you were going to meet him. Is that something you want to do?"

"How is that any of your fucking business?"

"C'mon, Sherlock. I'm just trying to be friendly."

"I don't want friendly," Sherlock snapped. "And as much as I love you, all I really want to do is just punch you in the fucking face."

"You know, if I had known how you felt, I wouldn't have ever brought her home."

Sherlock set the glass he had picked up down again, leaning with his knuckles against the bottom shelf of the liquor cabinet. He was quiet for several long moments before speaking again.

"You still should have told me. About Sherrinford. You should have - "

He threw the rag on his shoulder down onto the counter, pushing his way through the door leading to the back of the bar. He lit a cigarette, inhaling forcefully, his entire body vibrating with his rage. He heard the door open and close again and turned to find John looking at him, his eyes looking helpless.

"I should have done a lot of things, Sherlock."

Before Sherlock could reply or ask what he meant John was kissing him, soft and hard and easy and passionate all at once, his hands threading through Sherlock's curls, his scent overwhelming Sherlock's nose. Sherlock breathed in deeply, letting himself get drunk off it, his free hand fisting in the front of John's jumper and pulling him closer as the kiss deepened and his anger melted away. John was solid, comforting. John was - well, John.

"I love you, you idiot."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile a bit, his heart fluttering. "I know. I've known."

John kissed him again, pulling away only to catch his breath. Sherlock took a step back to catch his own, taking a drag off his cigarette.

"John?" he said softly after a moment, exhaling smoke.

"Yeah?"

"I've got a son."

John grinned widely at him, nodding. "You've got a beautiful son, Sherlock."


	13. Sherrinford Holmes

Sherlock felt like he might throw up. He glanced at John sat beside him, then out of the black sedan's window once more.

"You didn't have to come."

"You asked me to," John replied, glancing at him. Sherlock refused to look at him now.  
"I know, but you didn't have to."

"He needs a wellness check-up anyway," John murmured, turning his head to look out of his own window. "You nervous?"

Sherlock was too nauseous to answer and he wished the driver would slow down. He had really wanted to come in John's car - John's car, that smelled like vanilla and antiseptic and so lovingly like John - but Mycroft had insisted he have a car pick them up. Sherlock was indeed nervous - you only got to meet your two year old son once, and he didn't want to mess this up.

"He's going to love you," John told him quietly. "He's going to love everything about you, Sherlock, I promise."

Sherlock nodded and lit a cigarette, ignoring the glare the driver gave him via the review mirror. He cracked his window and exhaled smoke through his nose, fidgeting. The car pulled up a long, winding drive until it came to a halt outside of - 

"My childhood home," Sherlock muttered in disbelief, staring up at it. The Holmes Manor, to be exact. It towered tall and wide, with eggshell white walls and robin egg blue trim and large front windows. Sherlock stepped out of the car but didn't go much further, his breath catching in his throat as his eyes fell upon the front door. He lingered to finish his cigarette.

"I don't know if I can do this," he muttered to John through a cloud of smoke. John came to stand beside him, taking his hand.

"Yes you can, Sherlock. Your son deserves to know his father."

Sherlock nodded slowly, took one last draw off his cigarette, then crushed it with the heel of his boot before walking inside.

 

"Johnny Johnny!"

A sharp, excited squeal met Sherlock's ears as something fled past him, tackling John's legs and nearly toppling the man over. John picked the toddler up and Sherlock took a look, his breath stopping in its tracks.

Sherrinford was gorgeous, with soft golden curls growing unruly across his scalp and wide brown eyes. He had Sherlock's cheekbones already and a broad smile that disappeared into suspicion when his gaze fell on Sherlock.

"That's your papa," John told him, taking Sherrinford's hand and shaking it. "Say hi to your papa."

Sherrinford smiled shyly, turning and burying his face in John's chest instead. John held him close and bounced him a bit.

"Give him a little while, he'll warm up."

"He's gorgeous," Sherlock breathed. "And he trusts you so much, John."

"I may have stepped out of the doctorly role a bit," John admitted, and bounced Sherrinford again gently to rouse the toddler's attention. "Where's Uncle Myc-Myc?"

Sherrinford twisted around, suddenly desperate to get down. "Myc-Myc!"

John set him down and he took off running, disappearing down the hall into what, if Sherlock remembered correctly, was the playroom. Sherlock, entranced, followed slowly. He was right; there were toys scattered about and a kid's playtable covered in papers with colored scribbles on them. Mycroft was sitting in a chair not unlike Sherlock's own back at Baker Street, reading the newspaper. He looked neither surprised or annoyed, however, when Sherrinford began to crawl into his lap.

"Myc-Myc!"

"Hello dear Sherrinford," Mycroft folded up the newspaper to give his undivided attention to his nephew. "How are we today?"

"Good!" Sherrinford reached, grabbing at Mycroft's face. Mycroft looked unsurprised by this as well, as if it were old hat. In fact, he puffed out his cheeks, eyes bugging a bit.

"Oh, you got my nose!"

Sherrinford broke into a fit of giggles and Mycroft smiled, eyes going up to where his younger brother stood at the doorway dumbfounded. "Ah, Sherlock, hello."

"Hi," Sherlock said, his voice soft as if he was scared of running Sherrinford off at any moment. He took another cautious step into the playroom, crossing carefully over to the table and kneeling beside it to look at the drawings. They were just mindless scribbles on blank paper, nothing with meaning, and yet Sherlock found them inexplicably beautiful.

"Sherrinford's quite the artist," Mycroft picked Sherrinford up and stood, joining Sherlock at the table. Sherrinford gave Sherlock a watchful eye before sitting at the table, pulling paper and crayons towards him. He began to scribble. Sherlock watched him, fascinated and infatuated.

"Color," Sherrinford said, pushing crayons towards Sherlock. Sherlock took a blank piece of paper and did as he was told, drawing a pirate boat, just like when he himself was little. They stayed like that for a little while, Sherlock and Sherrinford 'coloring' at the table; Mycroft returned to his chair and his newspaper. John eventually wandered in, sitting at the table as well and watching them both with a smile.

"Here Papa," Sherrinford pushed his paper towards Sherlock. Sherlock took it, a grin spreading across his face.

"Thank you, beautiful boy," he said, kissing Sherrinford on the forehead. Sherrinford was starting to look grumpy.

"Is it time for a nap?" John asked him, picking him up and bouncing him gently again. "You tired, baby boy?"

"Papa," Sherrinford mumbled, reaching for his other father. Sherlock took him in his arms, holding him close. He was intoxicated by Sherrinford's scent, taking a moment to inhale that special soft spot on all children's heads that their parent loves. Sherrinford snuggled closer, rubbing his eyes with a chubby, curled up fist, and fell asleep in minutes against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock felt his heart swelling with love and looked at John.

"Told you he was gonna love you," John murmured, then kissed Sherlock on the cheek. "He's the spitting image of you, love."

"I want to take him home," Sherlock turned to Mycroft. Mycroft shook his head.

"You're still to unstable and early in your recovery, Sherlock. You need to give it a month or two, maybe even six months or a year."

"I've already missed so much," Sherlock shook his head. "I'm not missing any more, Mycroft. I'll give you the month or two, but I want him to come live with John and I."  
After a moment, he realized what he had said and flushed. John looked a bit dumbfounded.

"You want to move in together?"

"Maybe this isn't the best time to have this discussion," Mycroft said pointedly. "Sherlock, you need to put Sherrinford into his bed for his nap."

"Hold on," John said, then snapped a picture of the two. Sherlock took Sherrinford upstairs, putting him to bed before returning. He gave his brother a curt goodbye and stepped outside for a cigarette.

John wasn't far behind him. "You want to move in together?" he asked again, still looking dumbfounded. "You want me to...move in with you?"

"Baker Street is more than big enough for the both of us," Sherlock said dismissively, mistaking the reason of John's hesitation. "Especially if we share my bedroom."

"Sherlock - "

"What, John? We've lived together before."

"That was different."

"Oh." 

Sherlock flicked his ashes, looking away. "You don't want to."

"I just...agree with Mycroft, actually. You're still early in your recovery, still figuring a lot of things out. I don't want to risk all of that."

Sherlock took a drag off his cigarette without saying anything, purposely not looking at him.

"Just give it time, love," John told him. "I'm not saying never. I'm just saying not right now."

Sherlock nodded slowly. Maybe his brother and his boyfriend were both right. Maybe he just needed to give things time.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! If you enjoy this fic or any of the other works I've posted on AO3, please please consider buying me a coffee at http://www.ko-fi.com/oliverkamber . This money helps support me and lets me keep doing what I love most, which is writing.
> 
> If you can't, don't sweat it. Thanks for reading and I appreciate you.


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